Blonde and Purple
by iSackettEcho
Summary: Angela takes Elva under her wings. "Blonde was golden and beautiful. Brown was warm. Black was boring. Purple was cold. Blonde was right. Purple was wrong."  Previously posted on SF3
1. Chapter 1  Angela

Blonde and Purple

Summary:

**Blonde** was golden and beautiful. Brown was warm.

Black was boring. **Purple** was cold.

**Blonde was right. Purple was wrong.**

Angela the Herbalist is left to teach Elva, a magical and rebellious child with black hair and purple eyes, cursed by the great Dragon Rider Eragon. Furious with Eragon's ignorance, Angela decides to take Elva into her own tutelage, hoping to help the child in ways that no one else can. Guided by memories of her own tutelage under the elusive hermit Tenga, Angela hopes to help Elva endure her horrible curse and teach her how special and unique she truly is.

Elva, abandoned into the care of an old woman without family, is taken to Angela the Herbalist. The spunky, blonde woman annoys the young girl beyond all patience. As the pain of those around her wears her nerves thin, Elva hates herself for the strange anomaly that she is, despising the wary and fearful glances from the people of the Varden. No one will ever accept her for who she truly is, she feels certain.

Can a pair of such opposites ever cooperate and get along? Can a friendship be formed? Can one learn from someone so completely opposite?

Chapter One—Angela

"Are you Angela?" I heard a small, scratchy voice ask. "Angela the Herbalist?"

I glanced up to see an old woman standing before me, her face more wrinkles than actual features. Her shoulders were hunched, as if she constantly carried loads of heavy bucket water with her everywhere she went.

"Why, yes, I suppose I am," I replied, a wide smile stretching across my face. "Some do call me that."

"Would you, please, come with me?" she asked, her voice strained with apparent stress. "There is a baby I hope you can help. Something very odd has happened to her." Her voice pitched upward on the last few words, causing her request to sound more like begging.

Her distress worried me, though I was curious as to what she meant, and I quickly agreed. Throwing the strap of my herbal bag over my head, I followed closely behind the old woman as she weaved through the Varden's tents, Nasuada's people and army now camped several miles away from the Beor Mountains on their way to Surda. At last, she stopped at a tent that looked absolutely identical to all the others… identical, that is, but for a stain in the curious shape of a bull's skull on the stiff canvas beside the opening.

I brushed aside the flap covering the tent opening, wondering what kind of child I might find inside. I bit my lip and tilted my head to the side as I hoped I would not find a child with Urgal horns growing out the sides of her head.

The old woman stumbled ahead of me. She really was such an odd old woman. She seemed nervous and never certain of where she was going. She reminded me of a blind desert snake, abruptly changing direction every few feet.

I watched with curiosity as the old woman bent over a heap of purple and black blankets. Gently, she shook the folds of heavy fabric. The heap of blankets quaked and rolled over. Fascinating, I thought. Then, silly me, I realized that the pile of blankets was a girl! A glanced quickly over the girl as she stood to her feet.

The little child stood barely three feet high and looked to be about three years old, upon my guess. Black hair hung straight around her face, and her dark bangs slanted partially over her eyes. Purple eyes, the deepest violet hue I had ever beheld, peeked out from under the slanting, black bangs. The skinny, poor child was clothed in a thin cloak of black lined with purple. I smiled as I realized that the purple in her cloak perfectly matched the color of her eyes. She looked positively magical, though a little delicate. Though the little girl could not have been more than three, her violet eyes glared out at me as if assessing me and passing premature judgement upon me. The intelligence I found there caused my curiosity to spike.

Curious as I was, I pulled my gaze away from the purple-eyes child and, with hands now on my hips, asked the old woman, "So where is this baby you have brought me here to see?"

The old woman's voice croaked, her mouth open to answer. No sound left her lips, however, and her hands nervously clasped one another.

"I am the baby she is referring to," a startlingly harsh voice answered me.

I whipped my head around. "I am Elva," the purple-eyes child spoke again, her voice deep and mature as an adult's.

I shivered at the quality of her voice. I suddenly had the idea that this child was like an adult trapped in a toddler's body.

Just then, Elva flicked her head to the side, her bangs, flipping free of her forehead. I gasped. In the center of the child's forehead was a silvery dragon's mark.

"Eragon blessed her, you see," the old woman explained, wringing her hands. "And the dragon left that mark."

I ignored this obvious bit of information. It wasn't like there are a lot of dragons around anymore to be handing out marks.

The old woman's expression then turned vehement, an emotion I had doubted the old woman had the capability of feeling. "I fear that the dragon has cursed her!"

"No, my dear," I tried to explain, "that is a good thing." A thought occurred to me. "Yes, all and good, but I thought you brought me here to see a baby. Where is the baby?"

"I am that baby," Elva spoke again, her voice startlingly cold.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head and waving my hands in front of me as if to swat the statement away. "No, no," I started, "you may be little, but you are no baby."

The child's purple eyes narrowed in on me. "No, she is referring to me. I was a baby. The curse compelled me to use magic to grow several years older in just a few short weeks." She spoke slowly, as if she were the one speaking to a child.

I glared at her. I did not like her tone of voice. Then, her words sank in. "Curse?" I repeated. I lifted my eyebrows.

"Yes, a curse. Eragon's curse," she clarified. "I feel everyone's pain and am compelled by the curse to relieve or to intervene, or to even prevent the injury if I so choose." Even as she spoke she winced and her lip quivered, as though she were feeling someone's pain just then.

Repulsion crashed over me. I stared in horror at the child. Elva's eyes hardened in anger, witnessing my reaction and awaiting my verbal response.

I ground me teeth together. "That stupid clod Eragon!" I growled.

Elva's eyes relaxed. A faint, humorless smile stretched across her thin lips.

"What should I do to help her?" the old woman piteously interjected.

I lifted my chin. "Do not worry, my dear. I shall take her under my personal tutelage. I will take care of her education," I declared. Perhaps in time, we could also find a solution, or at least a way to help her deal with the pain.

Snapping out of my reverie, I growled again. "The next time I see Eragon, it will not go well for him," I promised, the pleasant ring of a threat in my voice.


	2. Chapter 2  Angela

Chapter Two—Angela

I watched Elva as she sat surreptitiously on the pillow in front of the low table I had moved into my tent for her. Her violet eyes darted back and forth around the room, resting momentarily on each of the different trinkets and potted plants I had managed to bring with me. At last, her eyes rested on the herbs hanging to dry out from the top centerfold of the tent.

Suddenly, memories from my tutelage under Tenga, the son of Ingvar, flooded my mind.

_I peeked over the old hermit's shoulder. "What are you looking for?" I asked, my high pitched voice evident even to my own ears._

"_A question," the old hermit croaked._

_I giggled. "You search for an answer, not a question, you silly goat," I told him._

_He glared up at me from over his work. "Bah! What would you know!" he shouted. He returned his attention to his scroll, squinting in the candlelight. "I thought you'd understand, but you don't. Go back to your work," he grumbled._

_I snarled at him, but gave up the argument and plopped angrily back in my seat by the warm fire. I moaned. I was tired of digging through scrolls to find the answer to a question I did not know._

I gritted my teeth at the memory. I determined to never be such an awful teacher as he had been. Any pupil of mine would have a question, and I would help them to find the right ones.

Elva was starring at me, I realized. I cleared my throat. "I believe we will begin with the basics. Hmm? Reading and writing!" I cooed in excitement.

Elva merely blinked, her facial expression unchanging. Her deep purple eyes began to unnerve me. "Yes, well, we will start with writing, then," I blurted awkwardly, sliding a blank sheet of parchment onto the table in front of her. From a special bag set aside for that specific use, I pulled out an inkwell and quill.

Elva reached out and touched the objects in front of her, fascinated. Her face suddenly changed, distorted in an expression of agony. Just as quickly, her features flattened of expression, and her eyes reflected a far away look.

Kneeling in front of her, I snapped my fingers. "Elva, try and focus. I know this may be hard, but you have to." I tried to be understanding and soft with my words. After all, no child should have to carry such a curse! Especially one who had lost her childhood—never even had any childhood whatsoever—and who had only a brief existence of nothing but pain. I tisked at this thought, imagining my hands encircling Eragon's throat. I wouldn't kill him. No, just scare him. Yes, indeed!

"Now, copy what I write down," I instructed. Plucking the quill from the low table, I dipped it in the inkwell and repeated the words aloud as I scratched them onto the parchment paper. "Despite popular belief, toads do not exist. Only frogs exist."

A twisted the paper around to face Elva, holding the quill pen out to her. "Why toads?" she questioned without taking the offered quill.

"Why?" I repeated, raising my voice in exasperation. "Because toads really don't exist. There are only frogs. That's why!"

"Huh?" Elva's confusion was obvious, but she looked more annoyed now. "But toads do exist," she challenged.

Tossing the quill pen onto the low table and sending ink splotches across the parchment paper, I leapt to my feet and scurried across the room. Among the many potted plants that I managed to miraculously keep thriving within my tent, I searched before finally withdrawing a small toad from underneath a large leaf of one plant. I held it high for her to see, stroking its back with affection.

"You see, here is a toad," I explained, showing carrying it closer for her to have a better look.

Elva scrunched her eyebrows together in anger and impatience. "But toads don't exist, you said," she tried to remind me.

"Exactly!" Then, I began my long, habitual speech on toads and frogs. "You see, if toads do not exist, and there really are only frogs, then I can prove that toads are not able to do anything bad."

As I prattled on about frogs and toads, I remembered how Tenga had never allowed me to ask my foolish, yet nevertheless important, questions. He was always blabbing about searching and enlightenment and ushering a new age among the savages—and lots of nonsense like that. The thought of the old hermit brought heat to my face as anger churned in my stomach.

_I swirled around to look at him, my thick blonde curls whipping into my face. "Ouch," I muttered, brushing my gorgeous locks aside._

_I saw the old hermit smirk appreciatively at my blunder. My voice rose to nearly a shout. "I'm done with you! I'm leaving, you old goat sack!"_

_I turned on my heel, raced for the door, and slammed it behind me. I grinned with satisfaction as I heard the loud slam of the door. The cold night air stung my nose as I inhaled and caused goosebumps to raise on my arms._

"_Why do they call them goosebumps?" I wondered allowed. "Now, that is a real question to find a real answer to!"_

_A sense of newfound freedom washed over me. With my curious questions in mind, I skipped away into the cold night and on to enjoy my freedom._

I vowed to never hinder Elva from learning. Rather, I was determined to help her find freedom! Freedom from her curse too, if ever I got my hands on that silly nincompoop dragon rider!


	3. Chapter 3  Elva

Chapter Three—Elva

I traced my fingers over the smooth edges of the purple feather of my quill pen. Nasuada had given it to me as a gift, after I had saved her life. She had said that the sleek, purple feather matched the violet color of my eyes exactly. I liked that idea—a color matching my eyes. I must certainly have beautiful, mysterious eyes.

Suddenly, a sharp shiver of pain cut through me. I trembled at its intensity. A carpenter somewhere nearby lost his grip on his saw. The razor sharp edge slipped and cut a deep gash in the man's arm.

I frowned then. My violet eyes were ugly, I was suddenly certain. Purple eyes weren't right. Nothing about me was right. I was wrong, an anomaly. I glanced over to where Angela sat, cooing to a toad in her hands. Golden ringlets spiraled down from her head and splashed over her shoulders. Blonde hair was right. Brown eyes were right. Purple eyes and black hair were not.

I knew what they called me—the witch child. Hearing that nickname used deeply hurt me each time, but every time, I hid it under the venire of my indifference, blunt manner, and sarcasm. I was also bitter, but bitterness was a weak trait—and I would never allow anyone to think me weak. A witch child they called me, then a witch child I would be!

Another wave of pain washed over me as a child fell and scraped her knee and a carpenter smashed his thumb with a hammer, reminding me once again of what an oddity I was.

I ground the point of the quill into the paper, marking a pinpoint dent in the parchment paper. A dark ink splotch filled the rivet from the tip of my purple quill. I liked that. So, I did it again. I moved my quill to a new, unspoiled stretch of parchment and ground the point of the quill into the paper. Another dot, another ink splotch. I did it over and over again, admiring and enjoying the mayhem I was creating on the page.

I worked furiously at my new task, ignoring the whole of Angela's crazed speech. Then, snap. The tip of my quill broke. I frowned, and my lower lip quivered. I broke the only gift anyone had ever given me.

Angela heard the snap. Finally, she glanced up from the toad. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "Oh, don't cry, Elva! It can be fixed. Look and see," she urged, gently removing the quill from my hands. Pulling a penknife from a hidden pocket in her skirt, she made two small cuts before handing the quill back to me. I sniffled as I saw that there once again was a new point. "Just don't press so hard, Elva. That way it won't break," she patiently explained.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. I was instantly angry at myself for crying over something so unimportant. Tentatively, I accepted the quill from Angela.

"Now," Angela continued, switching into a more serious voice, "try copying that sentence again. I'm going to go fetch some fresh water to make us a meal, okay?"

I nodded as she left. Glancing down at the letters, I huffed, unable to even remember what she had originally written. All I saw were pretty squiggles and dashes amid a mess of ink splotches, survivors among the carnage of a battle. So much pain there, in those ink splotches. Pain I knew well. Pain was my existence.

When Angela entered the tent again, with a full bucket of water in hand, I followed her with my eyes. She hummed a strange, lilting tune—not always in the correct pitch—as she bumbled about, preparing the ingredients for a small meal and for, what I suspected to be, more of her curious tonics. Her blonde curly hair flowed over her shoulders like golden sunlight. When she glanced up and caught my eye, she smiled, her brown eyes warm and friendly. Angela was so beautiful, and so normal. I looked anything but normal. I always looked wrong. My existence just was wrong.

Blonde was golden and beautiful. Brown was warm.

Black was boring. Purple was cold.

Blonde was right. Purple was wrong.


	4. Chapter 4 Angela

Chapter Four—Angela

"Today, I shall begin teaching you potions, Elva," I announced soon after her arrival at my tent. "And, why should you know how to make certain potions?" I asked pleasantly.

Purple eyes stared back at me blankly.

"Any idea whatsoever?" I asked again, trying to urge an answer—any answer—out of the girl.

Elva continued to stare at me, her eyes slanting in a judgmental squint. Clearly, the Socratic method was not the correct way to teach this child.

"Alright, then, I'll tell you why," I began, answering my own question. "Since that pitiless, spineless, stupid oaf of a Dragon Rider decided to leave you stuck with this curse, I am going to show you ways to ease other people's pain so that you will not feel their pain. Also, they may help to prevent you from having to do anything rash and dangerous by giving you an alternative way to help," I explained, gasping for breath after my long-winded speech and pausing for a reply that I knew I would never receive. I paused anyway, waiting.

"Sounds like a good thing to learn, no?" I prompted, still hoping for a response.

The unwavering purple eyes that met my gaze were beginning to take on a glassy look, boredom settling over the child. This irked me. I was not a boring person!

"Yes, it is," I answered myself again. "Well, then, shall we begin?"

I didn't wait for an answer this time. I turned my back and marched over to the row of herbs hanging from the ceiling centerfold of my tent. "Now, we will need horehound and mint, and can you guess what else?" I asked, pausing. Of course she couldn't guess, I chided myself. She didn't know because I hadn't taught her yet, and even if I had, she still wouldn't answer.

I continued naming off herbs as I plucked sprigs of each from the centerfold above me. Elva, silent as a ghost, followed me. I showed her each herb, and in turn she still made no comment. I could tell, at least, that she was listening and absorbing everything I said.

"First, we shall make a sleeping potion," I told her, leading her out of my tent, my arms full of herb sprigs.

I stopped in front of the black boiling pot I always kept just outside my tent. "Do you know which goes in first?" I asked, still hoping for the impossible.

Then, miracle of miracles, she spoke in answer. I was so overjoyed that she was finally participating with interest that I did not hear what exactly she had said. "What was that, dear?" I asked, smiling broadly.

"Isn't the pot and fire a little too close to the tent?" she repeated.

I frowned. So much for participation. "It'll be fine," I scoffed. "Don't you trust me? I've been doing this sort of thing most of my life!" Her look was dubious despite my words.

Huffing, my pride hurt by her doubt, I bent over the boiling pot and quickly threw in a few herbs and ingredients, forgetting to repeat what they were to Elva.

"What's this?" I heard her small voice ask.

Overjoyed that perhaps this time she actually was interested, I whirled around to have a better look at her. I screeched. "Don't let that near the pot!" I shouted, horrified for our lives.

In her hand, Elva held up an open bottle of green powder. I berated myself for leaving the stuff lying out.

"What is it?" Elva asked again. Now—now, of course!—she was finally showing interest.

I shrugged in reply. I didn't know what it was. I had found it a long time ago in a rocky crevice of the Beor Mountains. After experimenting with it, I'd realized that it had highly explosive propensities. "Elva, dear, just hand that back to me. Whatever it is called, I don't know, but I do know that it really isn't safe."

Hesitantly, she held it out for me to take. "If it isn't safe, then why do you have it?" she asked. Such questions the child asked!

Before I could answer or grab the vile from her fingers, a spasm of pain rocked through her body. Crying out in pain, Elva shuddered, and the vile of green powder slipped from her fingers… and into the boiling pot.

"No!" I screamed, lunging for the vile. I missed, and it disappeared into the boiling liquid.

BOOM! Flames and sparks sprouted and sputtered from the pot. Elva yelped, dropping to her feet. A spark snagged the side of my tent, and flames raced up the sides in billowing torrents. I squawked, scrambling away. "Fire!" I yelped.

I saw Elva dash for a bucket of water. "No!" I yelled.

The child splashed the water from the bucket onto the side of the tent. Instead of puttering out, the fire surged into the air, hotter and angrier than before. Elva screamed.

"Not water! Use dirt!" I cried, frantically kicking dirt onto the tent. Elva obeyed instantly, and together we frantically kicked dirt.

Blast the day I found that accursed powder! Who ever heard of fire that could not be put out by water?

Finally, the dirt did its job and smothered the fire. Once the fire was out completely, I sighed. There was little to nothing left of my tent. One side still remained standing, while the other half lay collapsed in smoldering, ashen ruin.

Hearing murmurs behind me, I quickly glanced around. I small crowd had gathered, staring at us like we were lunatics trying to kill ourselves. "What are you all looking at?" I yelled. "Haven't you ever seen a burning tent before?"

Slowly, the little crowd wandered away, a few observers muttering insulting things about herbalists and witch children being two of a kind. I chose to ignore their rude ignorance. They knew nothing of either of us.

I heard whimpering next to me. Peering down over my shoulder, I saw Elva clutching her hand as tears rolled down her cheeks. Instantly, my heart melted, and I knelt in front of her. "What is it, dearie?" I cooed. "What's happened?"

Sniffling, she held out her hand. A blistering burn stretched up the side of her hand, from wrist to pinky finger. "Aw, you poor thing," I gushed, affectionately patting her cheek. "I'll take care of that, don't you worry."

I scavenged through the sooty remains of my tent and found a few unsoiled bandages and a small bottle of healing cream. While searching, I was glad to find that my plants inside the tent had survived. As I wrapped Elva's hand, she glared out at me from under her dark fringe of bangs, glaring as if it were my fault that she had been burned.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to burn down your house."

Her words surprised me. She looked angry, not penitent.

"It's not your fault," I grumbled. "If that brainless Eragon hadn't cursed you in the first place, none of this would have happened," I growled, a wonderful image of burning Eragon's hand coming pleasantly to mind. It wouldn't maim him or anything. No, it would just be very painful. I relished the thought.

Still, Elva's purple eyes glared resentfully at me. I had the sudden thought that, though she may not have meant to burn down my tent, she wasn't really all that sorry it had happened. I sighed. Hopefully, someday soon, we could learn to be friends.


	5. Chapter 5 Elva

Chapter Five—Elva

I trudged towards Angela's tent, the hood of my cloak pulled up to cover my head. I did not want to people to see me. I did not want them to look at me. I knew what their minds held—the freak, the witch child, was passing by. Just suspecting this by their darting, averting gazes was nearly enough to make me want to scream at them all, hurl insults upon them and their ancestors, and curse their blotted lives upon this land called Alagaesia.

To my dismay, I remained silent, for hurting their feelings only caused me pain. If only they knew what I endured for them! Bitterness was a cup I drank from daily.

"Good morning, Elva!" Angela greeted much too cheerfully as I entered her tent. I was secretly hoping that she had fallen ill so that I might be spared from another day of her lessons. I would take the pain over her lessons any day.

I grumbled something incoherent in reply and sat unceremoniously on the pillow in front of the low table. If one must go to torture, one should at least endure it silently.

"Today, we are going to simply do some writing and reading exercises," she announced. "We have been neglecting them as of late." I watched as she bit her perfect lip and scrunched up her face. I had no idea what she could possibly be thinking about to cause her to make such an ugly face at me. I then decided that I didn't care.

I rolled my eyes, as she explained about something called grammar. Angela seemed to think that I could not grasp her lesson, that I still had the undeveloped brain of a baby or toddler. I might actually understand, though, if she would speak coherently and not run off onto other topics, like toads and the convenience of potions.

I couldn't understand why she was bothering to teach me today at all. As soon as the battle began over the Burning Plain, I was sure that I would be nothing more than a rolled up ball of whimpering agony. At least spare me the torture of Angela this day! But clemency was not given. Instead, I had to endure both the rising fears of the camp and Angela's incessant chattering.

Listening to Angela drone on, I wanted to bash my brains out. The only thing that kept me from doing so was that I had already felt the extreme pain that accompanies it when a Varden soldier had recently committed suicide. It was not a pleasant feeling. I had no desire to repeat the experience.

Suicide. The thought suddenly reminded me of the many excruciating and painful deaths that were to come today. The knowledge of this nearly drove me to my wit's end because I was the one who would feel it all. What being could handle all this? Such pain! I hated it. I hated it all!

And the fear of the camp… it could choke a soul. The very air sung of fear. Their fear welled inside of me—the worry of a mother for her son marching into battle; a wife's torment of whether her husband will ever return home; the soldiers' sickening fear of death or maiming or pain. I felt crushed under the weight of it, like I was being pushed into the very ground and into an early grave. The fingers of fear wrapped themselves tightly around my neck. Occasionally, I would clutch or scratch at my throat, only to realize that no palpable fingers were there.

My eyes darted all over the room—resting momentarily on the door to be sure that no enemy solder would sneak in who would kill me, lighting on Angela's face to be sure that her throat had not been slit, following every shifting shadow or inconspicuous insect. I tried to focus on just the parchment paper in front of me. Instead, I tore away a corner of the parchment, my fingers aching from the built up agitation in my body. I glanced up, watching Angela through a black fringe of bangs. She had not noticed, so I ripped another small piece from the parchment. The ripping made me feel batter. I did it again. Rip. And again. Rip.

"Elva!" I heard Angela cry in exasperation. "How are you to write if you tear up your parchment paper?"

My eyes refocused on the confetti in my hands. The parchment was suddenly gone, replace by rubbish. Just like me. I had been a normal, beautiful baby once. Now I was left with only pieces of a half-grown witch child.

"Don't touch them!" I cried as she tried to brush them away from me into the palm of her hand. I was the pieces of paper. I was as jumbled and shattered and tore as they looked.

A strange look passed over her face as I glared at her. "Elva, it's okay that you ripped the paper, but it's garbage now. Let me throw it away. I will give you a new sheet of parchment."

"I am not garbage!" I screamed. "You can't throw me away!"

Angela looked bewildered. She did not understand. She would never understand.

"Elva, I never said that you were garbage!" Her voice, though trying to remain patient, was rising to the level of mine.

I wanted to scream at her, to tell her that I knew she hated me. I wanted to tell her that she should not waste her time on a helpless cause like myself. But the words didn't come. As much as I hated her, as much as she annoyed me, I did not want her to leave. She was the only one with me… and that good for nothing, intolerably annoying, old nurse of mine. Angela was an angel compared to that paranoid bag of bones.

Then, without meaning to, I screamed. A jagged pain ran down the length of my arm, feeling like it had just been pulverized. I doubled over as something sharp pierced my stomach. My teeth chattered as a hard object collided with my head.

"Elva?" I heard Angela ask with panic. Then, the blonde woman swore, using words I had never heard before. "The battle," she hissed.

I cried out again as an arrow pierced my eye. My fingers flew to my face and traced my eye. My eye was fine. A soldier somewhere was now missing one. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I tried to curl into a ball. But rolling into a ball did not lessen the pain. Rather, the pain only worsened.

I felt Angela grasping my arms. She pried my fingers loose from my knees, pushing me flat onto my back and raising my head off the ground with her hand.

"Here, Elva, drink," she commanded, holding a cup to my lips. I gulped down the potion, hoping that it would work, whatever it was.

I whimpered as Angela pulled me into her arms, rocking me like the baby I should have been. Her golden hair brushed softly over my face.

"It hurts," I croaked. "They all hurt," I tried to explain. I suddenly wanted her to understand.

"Shhh, Elva," she quieted me gently. "Everything will be okay. I'm here. I've got you everything will be okay," she reassured me, lightly brushing aside the black hair that was plastered to my now sweaty face.

"I don't want to live like this," I whimpered, my own voice beginning to sound far away to me.

An angry look came over Angela's face. "Don't you worry. Next time I see Eragon, I will throttle him for you."

"It won't change anything," I said weakly, my voice barely coming out in more than a sigh. The pain was increasing, but I felt like my body was tethered in place, unable to react.

"Elva, you hold on, you hear me?" Her voice was earnest. I thought she might be shaking me. "I'm not letting go of you, so don't you let go of me."

Staring up through her golden blonde hair and into her soft brown eyes, I suddenly realized that I maybe, just maybe, really did have a friend after all.

"You hear me?" Her voice sounded too loud, too frantic. "Promise me, Elva, you won't ever give up! I want to see your beautiful purple eyes again everyday."

What was she saying? My mind wasn't following her. I had pretty eyes? Was she saying purple was actually nice? I shook my head, trying to clear it. And what was she asking me to do? The pain wouldn't kill me, unfortunately. Was she was afraid that I was going to give up, or that I might eventually kill myself, if ever I mentally survived this ordeal? She shouldn't be worrying about that, I thought, my head beginning to feel foggy. My curse would always prevent me from doing so—I must always remain to be a shield from the sorrow of others. Besides, even if I could, I was too stubborn to give up on this life, as stubborn as any dragon clinging to his last breath, clawing the underbelly of his wretched enemy.

Black swirls clouded my vision. "Okay," I managed to sigh. The pain was still intense, but it felt far away from me.

I saw Angela smile above me, her hand stroking my cheek. "Sleep now, Elva. Sleep," she murmured.

Before I blacked out completely and disappeared into this wonderful, unknown land of uninterrupted and partially painless sleep, I thought that it was nice to have a friend. And I thought that perhaps, just perhaps, purple wasn't so bad after all.

The End.


End file.
